


Contention

by jeathcliff (hlwim)



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, F/M, Hand Jobs, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 12:06:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17683124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hlwim/pseuds/jeathcliff
Summary: Kimblee will know why she’s there. Her stare in the yard was hungry and unmistakable—and hadn’t that always been the point, with him?





	Contention

She is not _necessarily_ waiting—it so happens that Riza was already headed towards the north end of the complex, back to her place in Bradley’s office, after a long walk around the parade grounds failed to calm her agitation. And pausing at the end of the corridor is just common courtesy, allowing Kimblee and his escort to finish their conversation in relative privacy.

She’d seen the report on Bradley’s desk last week— _knew_ that Kimblee was going to be released and pardoned and brought to Central Command. But the details had escaped her notice. The time, the date, the physical condition of his person upon release. He’s a convicted traitor who killed a legion of officers for no reason other than fun. Direct action without adherence to a cause is simple terrorism, as her father had always said.

A shudder passes through her. To think of _him_ now, in this context, is a depth she’d rather not plumb. But in the next second she’s reminding herself there _is_ no context. She hasn’t spent mornings thinking about those nights with Kimblee, hasn’t wondered how his skin stretched over his clavicle will taste, hasn’t ached deliciously for that well-remembered fullness between her spread thighs.

Lying to herself, as always.

Riza sucks her bottom lip between her teeth and chews. Kimblee will know why she’s there. Her stare in the yard was hungry and unmistakable—and hadn’t that always been the point, with him? The easy shamelessness associated with fucking _him_ in particular, the simplicity of taking and never caring about what was given.

A hundred years in agony, and his escort finally leaves. Immediately Kimblee is turning to her, mouth slanting around the start of something vulgar and unwelcome. She silences him first with a kiss savage enough to taste like blood, and then shoves him backwards, behind a row of filing cabinets and beside the closed supply closet door.

“I did hope _someone_ would miss me,” he murmurs, and she shivers with thrill.

“Shut up,” she says, fumbling the lock open and then yanking him inside by the lapels of his snow white suit. He tastes exactly as she remembers him: heat and ash and the sweat of desperate need. She can feel him pulse against her leg, and she is flooded with memory of desert sand, of determined nervousness in sliding the canvas aside, of straddling his cot and so carefully guiding his cock inside her.

It was a choice then as it is now—she could have found some other recruit to ease her tension in the field, and _knows_ , in all the ways she shouldn’t, that she could walk into any bar in Central City and find a man eager to fuck her in the anonymous darkness of an empty alley. But she chose Kimblee, she chose sex, she _chose_ to submit and swallow her hatred like rising bile, day after day staring down Bradley’s knowing smirk.

There is no profit in this choice, no _purpose_ —she’s not going to fuck Kimblee because he can be manipulated or for intel or because he might turn. She’ll fuck him because it feels good to fuck him, and because she _wants_ to, right now more than she wants to be released or fight free.

His hands roam her body, working from the muscle memory of all her weak spots. He manages to open her jacket and palms both breasts over her shirt, threading his lips along the line of her jaw to the curve where her neck meets her shoulder. Almost immediately her knees give out, and he laughs quietly at her moan, bracing her against the wall. His shoulders have narrowed but work well enough for support, although she can tell from the flat hardness of bone beneath her fingers that the pressure will leave a capelet of bruising. When his hands drift lower, nipping at her waistband, she digs in with nails.

“Neither one of us has time for that right now,” she says, and he pauses, mouth at her ear.

“You _must_ be feeling nostalgic.”

She wonders, perhaps too idly, how her name would sound pouring from that mouth, moaned in that husky, almost breathless voice.

“That’s not what I meant at all,” she whispers back, pressing her hand flat to his stomach. He groans sharply when her fingers slide directly to his zipper, and she silences him again with her lips, slightly annoyed at his inability to maintain discretion.

He seems thicker in her hand than she remembers—skin hot and soft as velvet, pulse jumping beneath the delicate glide of her fingers along the underside. He breaks from her kiss to breathe, and his ragged exhalation feels like reward enough, for now. It is his turn to buckle, to grip her body and purple her ribs, to beg for his undoing.

She will never tell him, but the extremity of his responsiveness is her favorite part. No doubt the lack of intimate touch afforded by prison could take _some_ of the credit, but she had watched this same vulnerability enfold him before, had relished in the understanding that he was ruined by _her_ hand, her body as instrument for a different kind of death. Something about him becomes so human in these moments, and it fills her with a sense of power she can never try to examine too closely.

He finishes faster than she had expected, thrusting his hips in a sudden off-tempo jerk. Her hand is coated in sticky warmth, and she lazily wipes clean on his vest. He gulps in air, sweat beading across his hairline, hardly concerned with returning the languid kisses she traces around his open lips.

“When you get to the hotel tonight,” she says, wishing to scrape her teeth across his throat, “wait for my call.”

She grants him one more promising kiss and exits, relaxed by the heat that pools between her thighs.


End file.
